Category Archives: tears

I dipped my finger in the oil collected at her anus. “Hmm,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll often find this part of your body lubricated in the future.”

“Sir?”

“A man who wants you, Jennifer, will certainly need to take you here.” I pressed my finger down a little, not quite entering but letting her feel her own muscles ready to admit me. Then I spread the oil, moving down into her perineum. Jennifer’s moan was loud, and unambiguously sexual. She was nearly ready.

“But that’s in your future, girl. For now-”

I resumed stroking her buttocks and thighs, with Jennifer rising and falling under my hands. Her breathing was urgent. She was close.

At the last second, I reached low on her buttocks and pressed hard, fingers digging into where her sciatic nerves would be. Jennifer sobbed, once, and her body rose briefly from my table. She was silent after that, trying to conceal that deep and perhaps surprising orgasm she’d just had.

I maintained the pressure, and a few seconds later she gave another shudder, and then was still. Her face looked anguished. Her eyes were wet. There were tears on my desk.

I resisted the urge to take her in my arms, kiss her and praise her, and instead resumed kneading her as if nothing had happened. My cock ached, in restrictive clothing. I wanted her so powerfully.

After a minute I slowed and stopped, and gave her right buttock a pat. “I think that’ll do you, little Jennifer. I’m sure we’ve dealt with any pain.”

There was no response. Jennifer was still entranced. There was drool as well as tears on my desk. I reached for her shoulder. “Girl.” There were threats, disciplinary threats, in my voice.

She let me help her up. She stood, panties still round her knees, and looked at me, red-faced, wet-eyed. She wiped her mouth. She wore no lipstick. Suddenly she launched herself, threw her arms around my back and kissed me. It was passionate, needy. I was sure it was the first time she’d kissed a man.

I let the kiss last, because it was wonderful and I wanted to treasure it, and it meant she had surrendered to me more than she knew. Yet. She rubbed her breasts against my chest. “Thank you, sir, thank you, thank you!”

But eventually I smacked her bottom. She remembered where she was. She stepped back. “Sorry, Headmaster. I was – I just wanted to say thank you.”

Of course I smiled. “You are an incredibly good girl, Jennifer. And sweet-natured. And there’s nothing at all wrong with that.” I spoke with absolute sincerity. These things were true. “Now, the oil’s soaked into your skin, girl, so you can pull your panties up now.”

For some female reason she turned her back for this operation, so that I could watch the slow concealment of the lower half of her bottom.

When she turned to face me, a smiling girl, her face only slightly flushed, I gave her a piece of paper I’d had Maddie type earlier. She looked at it blankly. “Sir?”

“That’s a note to Wynetts. The shop your mother bought your uniform. Take that piece of paper to them – they’re expecting you this afternoon – and try on uniforms till you find one you’re comfortable in.”

“Sir, please. I can’t take-”

“There’s a school fund for exactly this sort of issue, Jennifer. You can and you will. Get s uniform that looks good. Not like the one you’re wearing now, and not too conspicuously modest either. Just get something so that you look like the other girls. All right?”

So I tried to look stern, and said, “That’s enough of that.” But I couldn’t stop smiling. I took her ear and led her to the door. “Off you go, Jennifer. See me tomorrow morning, in your new uniform.”

“Yes, Sir.” I resisted the urge to pat her bottom, and shut the door behind her. I sighed, happily. I needed release. I needed Maddie, with some urgency. After some thought, I took the senior cane from my cupboard. I had no idea if she’d properly tidied and cleaned the storeroom, and I’d warned of consequences if she hadn’t. She’d be waiting for me, having listened to, among other things, Jennifer’s beautiful, bell-like orgasm.

While Lynette fiddled with the camera I swished the bamboo cane a couple of times, letting it speed past Raylene’s ass. The sound and then the wind of it unnerved her, and she flinched, buttocks clenching. Then, knowing that was wrong and possibly punishable, she arched her ass up again.

“Ready.” Lynette had the camera pointed at me, rather than Raylene. Then she moved it, presumably to frame Raylene’s ass and catch the reaction when the cane actually landed.

Accepting “good girl” is accepting that the dom’s judgement is worth heeding. And it means enjoying having his or her approval.

Dorabella smiled at me. I might have been being over-cautious. But she said, “Thank you. Actually, I quite like hearing you say it. Doesn’t give you the right to cane me, though.”

“Raylene, would I start with a caning?”

Raylene raised her head as far as she could, which wasn’t far. “You spanked me, master. To begin with. And I guarantee that Bellie would -“

“Rayyyy-lene.” Raylene’s head dropped again. I couldn’t see her face, but I could imagine her smirk. I kept my face straight. “Anyway, Dorabella, I wouldn’t do anything without your consent. And you’re still a good girl.”

She smiled, with dimples. “Thank you. On both counts.”

Irony is an ineffective shield. ‘Good girl’ still has power, even if accepted ironically

So I looked back at Lynette, patiently waiting through this comedy. She said, “Oh, you can call me ‘good girl’ too. It’s meant to be patronising. But I take it as a kind of parody.”

“Yeah, it is parody.” I was going to go on and say that even so, part of the way in which it felt good, below the layers of irony, was in submission responding to dominance. Safe, approving, warm dominance, but dominance just the same.

But I stopped in time. Better to let her feel she’d won a point than put her on her guard.

“Good girl” has most power when it’s whispered

“But you’re still a good girl, too. Thanks for doing the filming.”

Lynette smiled. She liked praise. And, more dangerously for her, she was starting to like my approval.

I pulled her closer, this time, rather than step towards her, and kissed her, gently, one hand on her ass. No smacks. I whispered, “Good girl.”

She closed her eyes, then said, “I know what you’re doing.”

But she was smiling. I said, “Does it make any difference?”

She didn’t answer. I kissed her again.

But it was time. I stepped back and raised the cane. “Raylene.”

“Yes, master.” In high, sing-song soprano. She was making her voice sound as cherubic as she could.

Raylene looked at me. Her t-shirt hadn’t been much protection or cover, but it had been something. It had meant she wasn’t quite naked. Losing it made her feel more vulnerable. She turned to face Lynette, and coughed again. Then there were tears welling in her eyes.

There was no way she could, or should, be especially sorry about mildly winding up Lynette last night. The punishment I was giving her was so obviously disproportionate that she had to know that her caning had nothing to do with any fault on her part.

But a tear spilled, and began its tracking down her left cheek.

She was in the scene and setting, and she was a sorry girl saying her apologies and hoping to be forgiven. So long as the forgiveness wasn’t the boring kind that would mean that her caning was over. She said, “Lyneck”.

She coughed yet again and said, less hoarsely, “Lynette, I’m so sorry I was rude to you at dinner last night. I was a silly – ” she glanced at me – “rude little girl. And I’m learning my lesson now. I hope you forgive me. Please.”

Two more tears spilled. One on each cheek. It had to be a hard appeal to resist.

But Lynette looked at me. It seemed she was going to wait to take my cue.

I softened my voice. “That was good, Raylene. You’re a good girl. Now turn round. Show Lynette your marks. And remember you’ve got another dozen and a half to come. And a penalty stroke. Whether she forgives you or not.”

Raylene said, “yes, master.” She’d found her voice again. She turned her back to present her arse to Lynette, who looked, fascinated but no longer horrified, at the red-splotched and striped state of that arse. Then, without me having to tell her, Raylene put her hands on her head.

I said, again, “Good girl.” She nodded but didn’t speak.

Lynette looked at me, questioningly. I smiled at her, and she smiled back. We had a moment of complicity, deciding Raylene’s short-term fate. She formed the word, “forgive?” silently.

I shook my head. Lynette smiled, nodded and said, “Raylene?”

Raylene didn’t answer or turn to look back at Lynette. She stood still, naked, her ass striped and glowing, her hands on her head. She was showing me that she only did what I said. Lynette said, “Raylene. You’re getting punished. Rightly. And I hope you’re learning from it.” Raylene’s shoulders dropped. She’d hoped for the comfort of female sympathy.

Lynette took a deep breath. It was hard work, being cruel. “But if you want my forgiveness, you’ll have to ask me again. Later. After you’ve had your caning.”

Lynette frowned then, looked at me and silently mouthed, “ok?”

I was grinning like a wolf prepared to share a lamb. I nodded. I hadn’t expected Lynette to know so well what Raylene would like to hear. I wanted Lynette closer to me, I realised. Where she sat I couldn’t kiss her, and I wanted very much to do that.

I said, “Lynette?”

“Jaime?”

“Would you like to touch those marks? Across that stupid little girl’s ass? She earned them for you; you can run your hand over them now. If you like.”

There was a moment’s silence. Raylene’s shoulders rose. She’d liked that idea. But Lynette sat for a moment, thinking.

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